a hurlan wind. He taks the drinks.

Noor and Eynar speak after the Council

“I said to see us at our best, not this,” he says. Noor had watched the meeting, taking notes. She laughs. “It’s better than a research committee.”

Eynar’s head is throbfestering from ringcirclebanging, crowdquarrellurching debate. “I’d take a vote instead of this sometimes,” he says, and shrugs. They go for a walk in the corridors.

“I wouldn’t,” says Noor. “At least you try to build consensus, make things fair. “Oh yes,” says Eynar, and Noor knows now this definitely doesn’t mean agreement.

“I expect there isn’t any system that could cope with what these days hold for us.” The Council was built for managing stocks, resolving contracts. Its hardestbloodiest worktask

was exile, not the ruination of techno-economic change. “Is that why you didn’t speak?” asks Noor. “I’ll speak when I have something to offer,”

he says, “And that won’t be until I am—um . . .” He stops and looks away. “Until . . . ?” “Ach, no. We’re here.” They’re by the House. Noor feels like she’s missed something important,

but feels like that every day. The big man looks as lost as her. “You’re not put off?” She shakes her head and smiles. The invitation is something new.

“But you’ll have to teach me the steps,” she says, and waves goodbye. There are people waiting for Eynar to bring the drinks for the unofficial second meeting.

Every eye is on the pair. “Oh, shut up,” says Eynar, behind the bar. The yelllaughroaring is either an anchor or a speedthrowrolldriving wind. He brings the drinks.

Darling’s body

In her bunk wi Astrid lyan asleep, Darling thinks

aboot her body an whit sheu’s waantid aa her life,

an whit sheu’s gotten noo. Hid wisno ower haird,

aence sheu’d left her faithers’ waant o corporate sons.

The maet o this transietion wis kent langsinsyne,

nae bother fer mosst o space, like jacks an limb extenders

an aa the bruck o bidan i’the varse, but sheu wis cursed

wi the wrang kinno faimly on the wrang kinno yird,

reclaimed fae regolith tae growe a fantasy

o pooer an no her awn confoodan sel. But noo,

happan her airms aroon her nesh body sheu’s feart

sheu’s draeman yet, that whit sheu’s touchan wilno stey

whan sheu wakkens, a fossil fear as oot o time

as ony baest o ony presairve o Eart. Her body,

here, noo, shoudno be bidan in aald wirds,

but hid is. Unless – an this is the true an muckle fear –

whan Astrid’s touchan her, whan Astrid casts a airm

ower her more-as-Martian skin. Whit maan it mean,

tae only ken thee body whan hid’s wi anither?

An deus hid ivver mean onytheen ither as grief?

Darling’s body